


In These Small Hours

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Foursome, M/M, Multi, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sappy, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's taken them years to reach this point, this place where four men can share space and make a life together.  And Derek wouldn't change a thing.</p><p>Well, maybe the Reese's Puffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In These Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QHolmes/gifts).



> December Fic Spree, Day 9: Gift for Alexandre00Q/QHolmes.
> 
> Happy December 9th!

A box of Reese’s Puffs cereal arches through the air, landing with a clatter in the bottom of the mostly empty shopping basket. Derek glares down at it before shaking his head and reaching over the basket’s child seat thing to pull the cereal back out. “You’re not getting this.”

"What? Why not?" 

Rounding on Stiles, Derek holds up the side of the box with the nutrition information, shaking it in front of his face. “These things have fewer redeeming qualities than Famine’s MEALS™ from Good Omens. Stiles, you could be eating _cardboard_ for all the nutritional value those have!”

"Tasty, tasty cardboard," Stiles says back, batting his eyelashes at someone behind Derek.

"Let the boy have his vices, Derek." Peter slips an arm around Derek’s waist, squeezing it quickly before stepping back.

Stiles crows at Peter’s support and tosses the box back into the basket while Derek just grits his teeth. “You always take _his_ side,” he grumbles, but the look of pure joy on Stiles’ face makes him want to smile in return. “He’s already a brat; you really shouldn’t spoil him further.”

"We can’t all subsist on protein shakes and raw eggs, Derek," Chris says, startling Stiles, who obviously hadn’t seen him coming.

Just for that, Derek grabs a box of _Frosted_ Mini-Wheats and throws them on top of Stiles’ disgusting cereal. 

—

At home, they all stand at their spots in the kitchen, Chris dicing vegetables, Stiles watching water boil — it’s the only job he’s allowed — and Peter calling out completely unnecessary instructions to Derek, who’s frying the meat over a hot skillet. Stiles bumps his hip into Derek’s, grinning and rolling his eyes when Derek looks over. Dropping his face back to what he was doing, Derek feels his own lips stretching wide.

"Excuse you both, children, I saw that!" Peter says, sounding mortally wounded. Or at least, wounded enough for Chris to abandon his vegetables long enough to soothe him with kisses. Stiles obviously thinks that’s a good idea, because he goes for one himself, only to have Derek push him back with a finger, gesturing to the steaks. 

"You’ll catch your shirt tails on fire," he says. "Again."

Stiles cackles and pulls him back from the stove, intent on getting his kiss anyway. Derek sighs into it, smoothing one hand down Stiles’ back and caressing his ass before the meat starts to smell the slightest bit charred. Pushing Stiles gently toward where Chris and Peter are still wrapped in each other, Derek turns back to the stove and flips the steaks like they hadn’t been seconds from burning.

Looking over his shoulder, he smiles to see that Stiles isn’t nurturing hurt feelings, but is instead wedging himself between Chris and Peter, head lolling back onto Peter’s shoulder as both older men let their hands — and mouths — wander over his body. Derek shakes his head, fond, as he pulls two of the steaks off and sets them aside. If it weren’t for him, nothing would get done around here.

Clearing his throat, he calls out, “Are the vegetables ready?” in a tone that’s guaranteed to make the three men jump apart. 

Chris, his hair in wild disarray, grabs the bowl of vegetables and brings them over, slipping one hand under the back of Derek’s shirt and resting it against the small of his back, just rubbing small circles. Wrinkling his nose at the pool of blood under the two steaks Derek had already removed from the heat, Chris just shakes his head. “Do the two of you ever get tired of living up to the stereotype?”

Derek just smiles, flipping Stiles’ and Chris’ steaks one last time. “You never complain in bed.” A presence at his other side makes him look over to see Stiles, face looking a little raw and eyes still soft and hazy, pouring the pasta into the now-boiling water. “Don’t forget the salt.”

"Yo, wolf-boy. Stay in your lane. I _got_ this.” 

Snorting, Derek plates the other steaks and pours some oil in the bottom of the pan, mixing the steak scrapings into it before tossing the vegetables in it, sauteeing them to perfection.

And then it’s time to eat, Peter having already poured glasses of wine and set out silverware. The four men crowd around the tiny table, feet occasionally tangling together as they indulge in idle conversation punctuated by the silence of people enjoying good food. After the dishes are done and the house put back to rights, they all fall into bed together.

The argument over what to watch has already been won by Chris, as it’s his night to choose. He picks a serial drama and they all settle in to watch it. By the time the credits are rolling and the previews for the next week are over, Stiles has one hand down Peter’s pants and is pushing his ass back toward Derek. Chris laughs at the sight and leans over Peter to kiss Stiles deep and filthy, bringing forth the first of the night’s many moans. 

Derek grinds his hips forward, teasing Stiles, and slips his hands up that flat chest, fingers making a beeline for his nipples. Now that there’s nothing else to distract him, he gives himself entirely over to this, curving his whole body around Stiles’. Fingers wind through the overlong hair at the back of his head, tugging, and Derek lifts his face into a kiss. 

From the facial hair that tangles with his, he knows it’s Chris, so he lets himself be moved into it, lets Chris take over. Other fingers tangle with his on Stiles’ chest, and a gasping cry has Chris pulling back, looking down. Derek follows his gaze to see that Peter has slid down the bed, mouthing at Stiles’ cock through the thin material of his underwear, even as he continues to help Derek torment Stiles’ delicious little nipples.

Chris huffs out a laugh and looks back up at Derek, one eyebrow cocked. Derek has no idea what he’s thinking, but he trusts the man enough to just nod anyway. Taking that permission and running with it, Chris climbs over Peter and Stiles, graceful in a way that only long-time familiarity can breed, and then settles behind Derek. He pushes down the back of Derek’s pants, slides his fingers between the cheeks of Derek’s ass and begins massaging at his hole.

"I want to fuck you tonight," Chris announces, unnecessarily. 

But maybe it wasn’t completely unnecessary because that announcement seems to loosen Stiles’ tongue, and he starts whispering filthily about how much he wants to see that, wants to see Derek’s big thighs pushed back to his chest, wants to watch Chris just _owning_ Derek’s ass. 

Derek groans at the commentary, can picture it clearly in his mind’s eye, and he _wants_ that, he does, but he also… “Want to fuck you too, though.”

Peter pops off Stiles’ dick long enough to flash his eyes and growl at Derek for that. “Wait your turn, pup.”

Like that’s been settled, Chris nudges Derek onto his back, efficiently stripping them both even as Stiles gets his sneaky hands in between them, pumping them both simultaneously before Peter yanks him away again. Chris opens Derek slowly and steadily, using plenty of lube, because werewolf healing is a bitch when it comes to anal sex. By the time Derek’s holding his own thighs, chest heaving and face flushed red as he begs Chris to just _get inside him already_ , Stiles is there in his face, angling down for a rocking sort of kiss. Derek can hear Peter slapping into him, feel Stiles jerk against him with every thrust, but they both swallow each other’s moans, kissing like they’ll die without the other’s tongue in their mouth.

And then Chris is sliding inside him, huge and hard and just this side of too much. It’s always like this, always a shocking stretch, always feels like he’s going to split wide open. Derek _keens_ , the sound muffled by Stiles’ tongue… until Peter pulls Stiles back, sitting him up on his knees, _pulling_ him down onto Peter’s cock and changing the angle enough that Stiles’ own cries echo loudly around the room. 

Chris leans down, taking over where Stiles left off, fingers gripping the backside of Derek’s thighs and holding him wide open as his thrusts get harder, plowing into Derek now. He works his hips, grinding in with each slap of his hips to Derek’s ass. Whispers instructions into Derek’s mouth as the first beads of sweat begin to drip from his skin to land against Derek’s, one more layer of scent mixing. Tells him to touch himself, to roll his balls, to pull back that foreskin so the bare head of Derek’s cock can feel the kiss of Chris’ happy trail.

Derek does, of course. It’s almost painfully good, pushes Derek to the edge and holds him there because it’s sizzling electricity and amazing pleasure all rolled into one. 

Stiles shoots off first — he always does — and that sets off Derek and Peter with their extra senses. Derek has to roll his hands into fists to keep from clawing up the sheets beneath him, but he opens his eyes when Chris makes that demand, lets Chris see past the human shell to the wolf underneath. And considering what Chris did for the first forty years of his life, maybe it’s not such a stretch that seeing that is what makes him hunch forward, his dick pulsing inside Derek’s ass, filling him up.

Eventually, one of them will get up and fetch washcloths to clean them off — Derek’s money is on Peter or Stiles — and then they’ll tangle around each other, listening to Stiles’ stream of consciousness mutterings before he slurs his way right into sleep. And then the rest of them will follow, content and sated and at peace.

When they wake up in the morning, Peter will indulge Stiles in a foamy-mouthed toothbrush sword-fight, Derek will snark at them both about acting their age, and Chris will break up the resulting sass-fest with a reminder that their coffee is getting cold. It will be _perfect._

It always is.

**Author's Note:**

> My teeth rotted just writing that. So much fluff...


End file.
